


We're a Family

by DearBeliever



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2020-07-10 11:49:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19905241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DearBeliever/pseuds/DearBeliever
Summary: Roger's been keeping a secret and soon finds himself desperately in need of some support from his other family.





	1. Table Manners

**Author's Note:**

> What can I say... I love me some Rog in need of emotional support and comfort. :-)

The most agonising moment for everyone gathered around the lavish, candlelit table was the moment when Roger’s expectant eyes scanned around the large circle of familiar faces and registered the absence of a vacant chair.

The drummer felt a flash of heat shoot through his body and it instantly made itself known on his cheeks. His mouth went dry as he noticed Deaky shift awkwardly in his chair and Brian’s mouth open and close in vain.

Given his recent state of mind and the fact that he’d pretty much spent the last weeks in one kind of altered state or another, Roger had naively assumed that he’d just forgotten the invitation to Deaky’s birthday dinner. Sobering immediately, Roger now realised what was happening around him.

“Oh… I see. Sorry, I didn’t… I didn’t realise,” the drummer stammered, his eyes blown wide as he hauled on the camel fur coat that he’d barely shrugged off seconds before. The hushed voices and twitchy movements he'd noted on approach when he’d first sashayed through the bustling restaurant made sense now. Jesus, what must the bands’ pals be thinking right now? What horrible stories of the past days had the guys told them to explain away his absence? 

“Rog, darling.” Delicate fingers reached out to twist their way around the blonde’s trembling hand in a gesture of silent reassurance. "We didn't think you'd want..."

“No, I get it.... I... No need to explain...” He cut Freddie off with a tight lipped smile and tried to feign nonchalance with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Fuck, I’m so embarrassed.” The halfhearted chuckle that followed didn't fool anyone. The unintentional quiver in his voice revealed much more. 

“Sorry everyone for the rude interruption, I’ll uh… I’ll be on my way.” He nodded to the group and shoved his hands deep into his pockets as he backed away in a daze. The blonde quickly came to a stop, however, as his right hand made contact with a sharp corner nestled within the coat. He momentarily wrestled with what to do next. Roger rocked on the balls of his feet before pivoting and hesitantly moving back towards the secluded section that concealed his friends.

Resting a hand on the white linen, he maneuvered his lithe body across the hushed table to shake John’s hand. “Happy birthday, mate.” He left the small, immaculately wrapped black box on the table in front of his ashen friend before finally making his exit.

Roger dodged waiter after waiter and was at pains to avoid the curious looks from tables all around as he blazed a desperate trail towards the foyer. The glass door of the restaurant shot open and ricocheted off of the wall outside as the drummer looked up into the fading night and filled his lungs with mouthfuls of air. Shoving his sunglasses onto his face, he headed in the direction of home and tried to regulate both his breathing and the tidal wave of thoughts running through his head. By the time he reached Kensington High Street, the overwhelming embarrassment he’d been feeling had morphed into something approximating shame. But punctuated with anger. He hadn’t quite gotten a handle on just who the anger should be aimed at quite yet. 

The drummer knew he’d royally pissed off the guys with his erratic behaviour lately but didn’t see something like this coming in a million years. Surely the benefit of the doubt had to be offered by such close friends after seven years of being in a band together? He’d sure as hell been there for John when he’d gone off the deep end about Veronica becoming unexpectedly pregnant years before. Likewise, he’d supported Brian during his intense months of soul searching and recurring dark, reclusive moods. Not to mention, accepting all of Freddie’s fleeting whims and disastrously grandiose plans.

Now here he was… Ostracised for being a fuck-up. Deliberately passed over for fear that he’d turn up with a prostitute or high as a fucking kite and ruin the evening with his addled ramblings, he imagined.

Roger had always liked to live life to the full which, undoubtedly, had led him down some pretty reckless paths in the past. However, those times were few and far between and he'd never lost the ability to channel his responsible, reliable side when needed. Recently though, he couldn’t find it within himself to pull back from the edge of destruction. And he didn’t much care to.

His father had passed away two weeks prior and Roger had reluctantly agreed to attend the funeral to represent his family when his mother and sister felt they weren’t up to it. He hadn’t found himself overcome with any feelings of grief or regret over the missed years. Their relationship was dead and buried years ago in the drummer’s mind. Yet, still, a feeling of emptiness had come upon him soon after. Almost like the lack of feeling was haunting him. He’d expected to feel something. Anything.

That was where the all day drinking and the copious amounts of drugs and his taking up near permanent residence within Soho’s strip clubs had come in. The desire to crawl out of his own skin and abandon any attachment to the real word for the time being had caused band business to suffer and his bandmates to become increasingly frustrated. He’d ruined meetings, insulted label reps and wasted thousands of pounds of studio time due to his inability to get his shit together…

They were a family. That’s what they’d always said anyway. So, by the time he unlocked the door of his flat and tried to ignore the carnage all around, his eyes began to fill at the thought that they couldn’t stand another night in his presence.

Having been in a world of his own for the past weeks it was nothing short of a miracle that he’d even caught wind of the event tonight in the first place. He replayed in his mind the unfortunate phone call that had led him to humiliate himself so dramatically…. That afternoon, in a small attempt to get his head back in the game after a talking to from Jim Beach, Roger had called Queen’s management offices about the recording schedule for the following week. One of their secretaries, Sally, who had a well-known soft spot for the drummer, had casually tried to prolong her conversation with him by asking what he’d bought the bassist for his birthday.

“Shit, that’s today! Of course!” he sighed, rubbing a hand over his stubbled face.

“Not to worry, you’ve got plenty of time to get him something before dinner tonight. Freddie had me book it for 9pm.”

“Great yeah. Where is it again, love?”

“It’s Stefano’s, silly,” she chuckled brightly and he played along, returning her flirty laughter.

Roger was wrenched from his thoughts as his foot met with the large, imposing box in his hallway that had been delivered by courier this afternoon. He knew what was inside of course but was yet to open it. The possessions of a stranger. The life’s treasures of a man who never once attended one of his concerts. The belongings of a person who couldn’t stand him but never knew the first thing about him. A father in name only.

Roger was a proud man and hadn’t wanted people to feel sorry for him, so he kept the death to himself. It was difficult to talk about something when you weren't quite sure how you felt about it in the first place. What he did know for sure was that whenever he was sober lately, his childhood nightmares were back with a vengeance. Along with the uneasy and anxious state he'd existed in prior to his father leaving the family home for good.

Grabbing a bottle of wine from the kitchen, he flopped down onto the couch, intent on reacquainting himself with the sweet numbness of earlier in the evening.


	2. The elephant in the room

The reverberations of loud bangs emanating from somewhere in the building roused Roger from his fitful sleep. Sitting bolt upright at the sound of a further jarringly loud crash, he gazed around the livingroom to get his bearings. Waking up in his own home hadn't exactly been the norm lately so it took him a moment for his mind to focus. At once, the events of earlier in the night came back to him and his stomach lurched at the memory.

“Rog! Please let us in mate!”

“Fuck…” the drummer whispered, raising a hand to his head. It was Deaky’s concerned voice. Looking at his watch he saw that it was just after midnight. The drummer threw off the thin blanket covering him and padded towards the door, somehow managing to avoid the debris strewn all around despite his unsteady gait.

“Can I help you?” he slurred, pulling open the door. The drummer met the eyes of the three rather forlorn and meek figures.

“Can we come in, love?” Freddie smiled. “Don’t want to give the neighbours even more of a show than they’ve already had.”

Roger stepped back and let them shuffle past him into the large hallway.

“Might want to open a window in here, Roger,” Brian chuckled awkwardly as he meandered towards the back of the flat.

“Fuck off, Bri,” Roger muttered under his breath, shutting the door behind him loudly in warning.

Roger followed them into the livingroom, noting the way his bandmates’ heads moved this way and that as they took in the uncharacteristic mess of the drummer’s home. Tossing dirty clothes and bottles onto the carpet, the three bandmates positioned themselves on the sofa opposite Rog’s makeshift bed.

“So,” the drummer began, taking a swig from the bottle of wine in front of him. “What’s all this then?”

Deaky leaned forward on his elbows nervously and took a deep breath. “I just want to say how sorry I am about what happened earlier, Rog. I didn’t want to hurt you. That was the last thing I wanted.”

Roger snorted, chuckling as he lifted the bottle again, placing his feet on the large glass table in front of him. “Well, that didn’t quite work out did it?”

“It’s just, you’ve not been yourself lately, mate,” the bassist continued. “Things have been strained and you’ve been so angry and unpredictable that I thought not mentioning my birthday was probably for the best. It was selfish, I know.”

Roger listened to his rushed words and felt sorry for him in a way. John was typically the most emotional of the group and he knew that it must be killing him to have this on his conscience.

“We just figured, let Deaky have his birthday in peace and then we’d figure out whatever it is that’s happened between us after it was over. We’re sorry that it all happened like it did. Truly. ” Brian spoke softly and sincerely and Roger felt his drunken resolve crumble even further.

The blonde lit a cigarette and nodded as he exhaled slowly. “I see.” He began to drum his fingers on the arm of the sofa, at once painfully aware of how quiet the flat was. It made him feel exposed and on display.

“What’s with the big box in the hallway? You finally order that jukebox you were going on about?” Brian asked suddenly, in an awkward attempt to break the tension.

“No….” Roger replied hesitantly. “Sadly not, no.” His lifeless eyes bore into the box.

The others couldn’t help but notice the way that the colour drained from the drummers face and that he immediately stopped drumming his fingers in response to Brian’s question. Even his breathing seemed to come to a halt before he reminded himself to begin again. Roger finally brought his gaze back to the livingroom and the others glanced nervously at each other, as if trying to ascertain who was going to ask the awkward question.

“Mate,” Freddie spoke after a moment’s silence. “Is something wrong?”

Tears threatened to spill over and Roger cursed the fucking alcohol for making him lose control of his emotions. It wasn’t like him to be teetering on the edge like this. But then, he wasn’t anything like himself at the moment. After a few deep breaths he had himself back in check and wiped away a couple of stray tears that clung to his lashes.

“I’m fine. Just been burning the candle at both ends, you know how it is…” He ran a hand through his dishevelled blonde hair, ruffling up the flat patches.

“Roger, what’s in that box?” Brian spoke firmly, though nervousness was evident in his voice.

The drummer bit his nails and shook his head. “Nothing to worry about, Bri. Everything’s fine.”

The bandmates didn’t think they’d ever seen such an empty smile as the one Roger has just offered them. His eyes were hollow and his demeanour entirely defeated at the mere mention of the offending item in the hallway.

“Darling, if you don’t tell me what’s in it, I’m going to go out there and open it myself. There’s something really wrong here, I can tell.” Freddie was standing over Roger at this point and the drummer raised his palms in a gesture for the singer not to touch him. The slightest comfort or embrace at this point would be enough to tip him over the edge completely. Nevertheless, Freddie grazed the side of his face with his fingers and sat down beside him.

“You’ve been sleeping on your fucking sofa when you’ve got a beautiful home with plenty of bedrooms. You’re losing weight you can’t afford to lose. You’ve been neglecting your friends and our band. You’re slowly pickling your liver and your brain…”

“It’s my Dad’s stuff,” the blonde interrupted, not wishing to hear any more.

“Your dad,” Brian replied in surprise, lifting his eyes from the carpet. “You haven’t heard from him in years...”

“Went and died, didn’t he.” Roger took another deep drag of his cigarette as he watched the realisation dawn on the faces.

“Oh my sweet boy,” Freddie breathed, reaching out to touch a retreating Roger once more.

“When?” Deaky urged, tears now filling the bassist's own eyes.

“Two, three weeks ago,” Roger shrugged.

“I’m sorry, Roger. So fucking sorry.” Brian now strode across the room and bent down to place a large hand on his knee.

“I don’t need your sympathy, Brian…” Roger stood up, taking the wine with him as he circled back behind the sofa to put some distance in between them. “You know what my life was like with him. What he did to us. We were all better off when he left,” he spat.

“I know, Rog, but still... He was your dad. I’m sorry.” Deaky was perhaps the most earnest person he’d ever known and right know the look he was giving him felt like it might rip him in two.

The drummer tried to feign a laugh in response and finally moved to open the window that Brian had requested. He was desperately in need or air, or more so some breathing space from this conversation. Roger was sobering up much too quickly now and couldn’t see a way out of this situation..

“How do you feel?” Deaky asked.

“Empty. Fucking empty...” he breathed, looking at the thousands of lights scattered across the city before him.

“That’s understandable, darling. You’re trying to make sense of it,” Freddie reassured.

“I should feel something though, shouldn’t I?” Roger turned to face them once more and wrapped his arms around himself, partly against the cool breeze now rushing past him. “Relief, anger, sadness… But there’s just been a fucking void there since the funeral.”

“You went to the funeral?!” Freddie couldn’t control the bewilderment in his voice. “Bloody hell, Rog. Why have you been trying to deal with this on your own?”

Roger shrugged and plopped himself back down onto the sofa, jostling the singer who gazed wide-eyed at him. “Someone had to,” he replied softly.

“You’re one of the bravest people I know, Roger.” Freddie put his hand on the drummer’s leather-clad thigh and squeezed. “But you’re not doing this alone. I won’t have it.”

“Exactly,” Deaky agreed. “You’re coming home with me tonight. Spend some time with Ronnie and I and the kids. You can get your head straight over the next couple of days. “

“Then we’ll deal with that box together,” Brian interjected.

“Yes,” Freddie replied enthusiastically, punctuating his words with a clap.

“Had been thinking about just chucking the lot out,” Roger mumbled, a sniff following a few moments later.

“Well, we don’t have to think about that right now. We’re a family, my darling. We’re so sorry we didn’t realise what was happening. But we’ve got you now. Put your shoes on and let’s get you out of here.”

Hauling the drummer to his feet, Freddie then sent him off in the direction of his room to gather some things. The other three stood staring at each other in disbelief.

“Well, does anyone else feel guilty as fuck?” Brian breathed, softly kicking some of the crap that lay on top of the drummer’s antique rug. The others didn’t need to reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 coming soon. The sweet Rog angst isn’t over!


	3. In the Dead of Night

“Daddy, wake up.” Two small hands gripped John’s shoulders and shook him repeatedly. “Daddy, there’s scary noises coming from downstairs….” The little boy started tapping his father on the cheek when he received no response. “I’m scared, Daddy,” the timid voice whispered as the sleeping figure finally began to stir.

John sat up quickly and moved out of the bed, his ears at once registering the noises that little Robert was referring to. “Come on, darling,” he smiled, scooping up the little blonde boy at his feet. “Nothing to worry about, darling. Uncle Roger is staying over and he’s probably just got the TV on too loud downstairs,” he explained quietly, trying not to wake anyone else. The bassist swiftly walked him back to his room and placed the boy back under the covers, feeling relieved that Robert had seemed to accept his explanation of events.

After closing the door gently behind him, John made a bee line for the stairs and the distressed sounds emerging from the guest room downstairs. His bare feet were a blur as he rushed down the stairs and rounded the corner towards the back of the house. The gut-wrenching, wounded noises emanating from behind the door caused his heart to hammer in his chest and fear to settle in his stomach. Even though it was his best friend, he was still somewhat apprehensive about just what it was he was going to find on the other side of the door.

“No, please…. It’s not fair…. Agh!” John could just about make out the repeated ramblings in between sharp wails and choked sobs. Desperately, he threw open the door to get to his friend but was momentarily perplexed to find the bed empty in the darkened room. “Nnnnnnnn. Please!” The pained cries and sounds of a struggling figure banging on the ground alerted him to the fact that Roger was on the floor on the other side of the bed. The bassist threw himself to the ground next to the blonde, anguish etched on his face at the scene before him.

“Roger, mate. Wake up,” Deaky spoke softly, electing to hold his friend tightly rather than shake him and risk distressing him further. Roger’s blonde hair was matted to the side of his face and his bare chest was covered with sweat and a few self-inflicted scratches by the looks of things. The drummer’s feet scrambled against the wooden floor and his hands were coiled in tight fists by his side.

“Leave. Argh. Leave her alone…” He was starting to hyperventilate, John noted, and showed no signs of coming out of the dream that had swallowed him whole.

“Rog, you need to wake up. It’s me, Deaky,” John pleaded. He brought his lips closer to Roger’s ear now and raised his voice. “You’re dreaming, pal. You’re safe, everything’s okay. ” The bassist’s hands gripped the drummers face and swiped away the tears that continued to roll. Mercifully,the awful sounds gradually began to slow and Roger’s blue eyes hesitantly flickered open to settle upon his startled friend. After a moment of silence, John helped Roger sit up against the bedside table as the drummer drew deep breaths into his lungs and began to calm. All the while, John said nothing, simply choosing to kneel beside him and rub his back as his friend came back to himself.

“Let’s get you back into bed, Rog,” the younger man offered, pulling the drummer up and helping him settle against the cool pillows. 

“Sorry," Roger spoke eventually. He screwed his eyes shut tight and shook his head, looking entirely defeated. “So sorry for all of this.”

John had to take a moment to swallow the lump that bobbed up in his throat before replying. In all the years he’d known the man, he’d never seen him look so lost. So listless and broken down. Carefully, John sat beside him and placed a hand on the blanket covering Roger’s legs. “You’ve got absolutely nothing to be sorry about, mate. Nothing.” He waited for Roger to open his eyes again and offered him a smile. “I made you come here because I wanted to look after you. And that’s what I’m going to do.”

The drummer sighed and ran a trembling hand through his hair. He then moved it to cover his eyes. “I’m a fucking disaster, Deaky.”

“And that’s okay,” John chuckled in reply. “You’re allowed to be.” John leaned forward to take a hold of his wrist, at once revealing the blonde’s pale face again. “You need to let me in though, mate. We need to talk about what’s going on.”

“If I knew, I’d fucking tell you. I just… I don’t know… Him dying has brought back stuff I’d rather forget. Things I don’t want.”

John was relieved at the little Roger was offering him. Truth be told, for the last few weeks John had been worried that his friend had developed a serious drug problem. It was the only thing he could think of that could explain the sudden erratic shift in his behaviour and relationships. Although his heart was broken for Roger, he was sure that with love and support the three of them could get the blonde through this. “We’ll figure it out together, okay?” he offered, squeezing his hands tightly. John then decided the gesture wasn’t enough given the circumstances.... To hell with the British stiff upper-lip, he reasoned. John leaned in to hug the drummer who clung to him in kind, holding him firmly in place for a moment.

“Sorry for ruining your birthday, Deaks,” Roger smiled, drawing his knees up after he had relinquished his grip on the bassist. “Hope you liked the present at least,” he chuckled, desperate to take the attention off of himself, at least for now.

John smiled knowingly in the darkened room. He had opened the present in private after most of the group had left the restaurant the night before. John was always good-naturedly chastising Roger for stealing his cigarettes and, even more so, for taking his lighter without returning it. Roger had gifted him a beautiful silver lighter with the words “To JRD, I promise never to steal your lighter again, Love RMT x” etched on it. It was so typically Roger.

“Loved it, mate. It made me smile. Now, if only I could really trust you not to half inch it!”

They both shared a laugh and a light-hearted moment. John felt like he could catch glimpses of the Roger he knew and he felt himself relax a little. 

"And I'm really sorry about the birthday dinner thing. I didn't think you wanted to be around us and I was avoiding having a conversation about it. I fucked up, Rog." John spoke sincerely, the pain and guilt evident in his voice.

"Don't worry about it. It's in the past now. We've got bigger things to worry about... Like me being a fucking basketcase," he chuckled darkly.

"Shut up. You're going to be fine. We'll see to it. But for now, you need to get some rest..."

Just as he was preparing to bid Roger goodnight, they both froze at the sound of the bedroom door tentatively being pushed open. The bandmates looked up to see a small hand make its way around the door, followed by some tousled blonde hair.

“Robert Deacon,” John whispered in disbelief. “What are you doing down here? I told you to go back to sleep!”

The little boy sheepishly shuffled towards the bed, pulling himself up onto the mattress with a little help from his dad. Roger smiled sweetly at the boy that he knew idolised him. Since his last birthday when he’d bought him his very own mini drum kit and given him his first lessons, little Robert had been infatuated with his uncle.

“Can I watch TV with Uncle Roger?” he asked hopefully, his big eyes gazing up imploringly at his father.

“No, you cannot," John replied in exasperation. "It's four o'clock in the morning. We’re not watching TV; we’re all going to sleep.”

“But you said Uncle Roger was watching TV down here,” Robert countered, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

The amused look fell from Roger’s face as he put the pieces together of what must have transpired upstairs. He looked at John who seemed to be struggling to find the right thing to say.

“I’m sorry that I woke you, little man," Roger interjected. "I’m going to sleep now but I promise we can do something fun tomorrow. How’s that sound?”

“Sounds good.” The little boy smiled at him and then looked up at his father as if to confirm that his uncle would indeed be at their home tomorrow. Roger had never stayed over at their house like this before and he felt like it was too good to be true. The boy's eyes fell upon his uncle again and John noted the curious look that crossed his son’s face. “Uncle Rog, are, are you sad?”

Roger smiled weakly, his eyes growing a little watery at the child’s question. “A little bit, mate. But I’ll be okay,” he answered softly.

The little boy shifted his body over the blankets until he was able to straddle the drummer’s legs. “Cuddles make everything better,” he stated knowingly, as he wrapped his little arms around the drummer’s neck. Roger held onto him tightly and gazed over the little boy's pajama clad shoulder at John. A few tears fell down his cheeks. In that moment Roger felt more safe and at peace than he had in weeks. “They sure do, buddy.... They sure do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 4 coming...


	4. Hidden secrets

A couple of days later the boys reconvened at Roger’s sprawling apartment. Some time with Deaky and his family had done Roger the world of good and had stopped his mind from whirling with questions and bad memories for a little while. In the interim, Freddie had arranged for his own assistants to have the drummer’s home thoroughly cleaned and rid of any illegal substances. Roger's fridge and cupboards were re-stocked, as well as every vase in the place having been filled with the most stunning array of exotic flowers. It was the least he could do after the debacle at the restaurant and his and the other boys’ complete obliviousness to Roger's pain over the past weeks.

“So, how do you want to do this, dear?” Freddie asked, walking into the spacious kitchen where Roger, Brian and John sipped on coffee at the central island.

“Just go for it, I guess,” Roger replied with a shrug, lighting up a cigarette. "Get it over and done with and gone from the house."

Silent nods were exchanged around the table and the boys moved to the hallway before dragging the large trunk into the centre of the living room. The drummer prised open the top of the box with a knife and began removing the layers of packaging one at a time. The others noted that the brightness had returned to the drummer's eyes, clarity that had been missing. Veronica had even given his hair a little trim at his request and the clean white t-shirt he was wearing highlighted the fact that colour had returned to his skin.

The first things to emerge from the box were old photographs that were met with great curiosity from the band. Roger explained to his friends who some of the people were, Great Aunts and Uncles, his grandparents.... Some faces were a mystery of course he explained, given his father’s often distant and aloof nature when it came to personal matters. A variety of knick knacks and mementos from his father’s military service came out next, Brian especially taking great interest in some of the artifacts.

“Gosh, Roger, you and your dad look so alike in this one, mate,” Deaky stated, holding up a picture of Roger’s mother and father not long after their courtship had begun.

A sad smile came over the drummer’s face, looking at the man who had been a virtual stranger to him for half of his life. “Yeah. Unfortunately, eh?”

Roger went back to work poking about in the deep box. The blond leaned over so that half of his body disappeared out of view, leaving him perched on just one leg as his fingertips reached the bottom of the box. Re-emerging with a grunt he ran a hand through his hair and dropped a bundle onto the table with a loud thud. A thick pile of papers covered in brown paper and neatly tied with white string sat before them. "M. Taylor. PRIVATE" was written across it.

“Shall I open this one, Rog or would you prefer to? Says private on it.” Freddie asked, offering the knife to Roger to loosen the tie.

“You do it, Fred. Probably just more documents. Nothing but self-indulgent shite here anyway," he breathed, waving his arms around frustratedly at the contents. "Was his final insult to me, landing me with all of his crap to get rid of. I'll offer some of it to my sister but most of it we can just take to the tip today.”

From across the large coffee table, Roger noted Freddie’s eyes blown wide as he flicked through the papers in his lap. The singer opened his mouth to say something, but seemed at an utter loss for words.

“What is it, Fred?” Brian enquired, walking around to stand behind the leather armchair that the singer was perched upon.

CORNWALL’s #1 DRUMMER!  
TAYLOR-MADE FOR STARDOM!  
QUEEN-MANIA HITS JAPAN!  
THE BOHEMIAN LIFE OF QUEEN!

Before him lay dozens of newspaper article headlines and magazine covers featuring Roger and the band from over the last seven or eight years since they had started Queen. Each one was carefully cut out and dated in his father’s own handwriting. 

Roger stood stalk still, pensively looking down at the array of articles that now lay spread out on the glass coffee table, his eyes flitting from one to the next as if he were trying to make sure it was all real.

“Say something, Rog,” Brian urged. “You’ve got to admit, this is a pleasant surprise, mate.”

“Pfft.” A cloud of smoke emanated from the blonde’s mouth as he stalked towards the window to get some much needed breathing space. The boys remained silent for a few minutes giving their friend the space that he needed. Although at times their own parents had been less that enthused about their given career path, especially when money and success had been hard to come by initially, they were, however, ultimately supportive. Products of happy homes, they made sure their children knew that they loved and supported them no matter what. As a product of a fractious home, and a survivor of domestic violence, Roger had a tougher road to navigate.

“How many times had you spoken to him since the band started, Rog?”

“Fuck knows, a couple of times on the phone?" he wondered out loud. "Saw him once a few years ago at my grandmother’s funeral. Fucker had the audacity to put his hand out to shake mine. He was lucky I didn’t punch him in the face after what those hands did to my mum and sister.”

“And to you too,” Deaky added, without looking up.

“Yeah, well. Rather me than them.” Roger flicked the cigarette out of the window and turned back towards the table. “Let’s keep these and give them to my Mum. She has a scrap book of stuff about me and I’m sure she’d appreciate them. She’d probably be relieved to learn that the old man had at least one redeeming feature.”

Freddie went to work parceling the articles back up and retrieved some string from the kitchen to complete the job with his characteristic flair.

“And how does it make you feel, Rog?”

“I dunno, mate….” The drummer shook his head for a long time, propping his feet up on the coffee table and searching for the right words. “I wouldn’t have thought in a million years he’d have followed our career. He never once told me he was proud of me to my face. He even sent me a card once telling me what a disappointment I was to him when I quit dentistry.” The drummer chuckled, recalling another long forgotten memory. “Another time, I got a message via my aunt saying that he didn’t approve of his son dressing like a “fairy” when he had the misfortune of seeing us on a news programme on the telly."

“Different generation, Rog,” Brian countered. "They keep everything bottled up."

“He was a bad person, Bri," Roger replied sharply, at once regretting the harshness of his tone. "Had no business calling himself a father or a husband…. But, yeah, in a perverse way, I suppose it does feel satisfying to know that he gave a shit about what I did. To know that he knew about our successes and what we were doing.” The drummer offered his friend a reassuring smile. "Brings me a bit of peace. I think, anyway."

“Only natural, darling,” Freddie breathed, coming to lay a hand on the drummer’s knee. Roger covered Freddie's with his own, giving it a light squeeze.

“Thanks for doing this with me, guys. My fucked up family meets my other fucked up family, eh?” 

“Always here for you, mate,” Deaky replied. "Always."

"Right, well, let's get this all tidied away, boys," the drummer began, clearing his throat of emotion. "Then we're going out for some food to celebrate John's birthday properly! That's if it's okay that I actually come this time, Deaks?" he added with his patented smile, tongue sticking through his teeth.

"Ah, there's the cheeky asshole we all know and tolerate," Freddie laughed. "You heard the man, dears! Chop chop!"


End file.
